


I Will Follow You Into The Dark

by wyntre



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Death, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-28
Updated: 2012-04-28
Packaged: 2017-11-04 10:48:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyntre/pseuds/wyntre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock had been infuriating, frustrating, self-centred, obnoxious; and yet… Yet capable of the deepest, most fathomless love. The universes he held in his eyes took John far away, to places where it was only them and they were kings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Will Follow You Into The Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'I Will Follow You Into The Dark' by Death Cab For Cutie. 
> 
> Indirect sequel to 'Haunted.'

Sherlock remembers the track marks, he remembers waking up in hospital on ventilators and IVs, and having his mother bombard him with questions, and his father sit there without a word. Sherlock remembers covering his self-inflicted wounds with long trousers and shirts and burying the bloody tissues at the back of the family estate.

His scars remind him, so he remembers. Sherlock remember addiction; an addiction he’d thought he’d beaten when he’d overdosed enough to die, when the blade had spilled just a little too much blood.

Sherlock remembers when he met John. A soldier in manner and affect; he broke down those barriers, the mental shields. Sherlock remembers when John became his, after the incident with the pills; Sherlock finally remembers what it’s like to have someone who cares. John was no longer the soldier, all barriers and guarded hostility; he was the best friend Sherlock never had.

Sherlock remembers when he and John moved together for the first time. High on adrenaline from a chase through the streets of London, Sherlock remembers the way John’s fingers traced the white scars, with questions in his stormy eyes; _file away for later._ Sherlock remembers the warmth of John’s mouth, the smoothness of his insides; the way he convulsed and looked defeated by the orgasm, a silent relinquishing of that which he had been so sure.

Sherlock knows how deep John fell. He could see it in his smile; he could see it in his eyes. Sherlock remembers the desperation in John’s voice, as he tried to talk him off the ledge. Sherlock knows what John spoke at his grave side. _One more miracle, for me, Sherlock. Don’t be dead._

***

Sometimes, Sherlock visits John without John realising. All the old defences in place and John has become the soldier once more. Sherlock knows John, knows how he behaves; the John Sherlock sees when he passes him in the street, isn’t the John he fell for. He’s empty, broken; the light has left his eyes. He walks with his old limp, and it’s worse now than it used to be.

It destroys Sherlock a little more each time to see him so defeated. He knows John is fighting. Scotland Yard gave up on any hope of Sherlock being alive long ago, and now it’s John, fighting solo and losing slowly. This is what the world has done to John, his precious John. This is what Sherlock has done.

***

John had never loved before meeting Sherlock. Well, no, that’s not entirely true. He had loved before, but not like that.

Sherlock had been everything. To Scotland Yard, Sherlock and John had been the best friends. To Lestrade, Sherlock and John had been the unlikely ones. Greg had known, Greg had always known. They’d never told him, and he’d never told them; but it was an unspoken understanding.

Sherlock had been infuriating, frustrating, self-centred, obnoxious; and yet… Yet capable of the deepest, most fathomless love. The universes he held in his eyes took John far away, to places where it was only them and they were kings.

John had always wanted to question Sherlock’s scars. The white forearm marred by whiter lines, too straight and even to be accidental. He was never able to. The moment never arose, so Sherlock came and went without having to answer.

And John felt himself falling apart.

***

Now and then, John wonders if Sherlock is in fact alive. There are sometimes moments in his day where he thinks he sees a tall, coated figure in his peripheral vision.  
Sarah grows tired of John’s ramblings. Every time he thinks Sherlock’s alive, he’ll break a little more, and show up on Sarah’s doorstep after one too many beers. Sarah always lets him sleep on the sofa. Sarah always lets him talk.  
 _“I saw him, I know I did.”_

John’s council flat is emptier than 221B; colder, lonelier. 221B is full of too many memories for John to stay there without shattering himself. And yet he finds himself back there.

***

When Sherlock is pulled aside by Mycroft three days later, he knows by the slant of his shoulders that something is wrong.  
 _John has killed himself.  
_ Mycroft’s voice fades. White noise, that’s all it is. Sherlock had never meant for it to happen. Never. The words are cold against his heart. He hears himself asking how, why.  
Mycroft says something about a gun, tells him that he knows why.

_He knows why._

Sherlock remembers what to do, and this time, Sherlock remembers to make it permanent. The detective may not believe in an afterlife, but he knows that darkness is better than the world without John.

~Fin~.


End file.
